


A Good Man

by Elanor_Hermione



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, But Faramir helps, Canon Divergence, Character Death, Developing Friendships, Faramir dies, Gen, Pippin and Faramir's friendship, Pippin feels lonely, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-26 02:07:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30098658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elanor_Hermione/pseuds/Elanor_Hermione
Summary: Pippin was alone in Minas Tirith, in this giant city too big for him: Gandalf was always busy, Merry was not there to entertain him and nobody seemed to care about him. Nobody, but Faramir.Faramir was the first and only one to approach him and spend time with him...... But the War is coming, and not everyone can survive it.
Relationships: Faramir (Son of Denethor II) & Pippin Took
Kudos: 2





	A Good Man

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome :)  
> English is not my first language, and since I'm not particularly good at writing and I need a lot of practice, I thought: "What's the best way of practising? Fanfiction, of course!"  
> So here I am. Please, let me know if there are mistakes and where I can improve.  
> Enjoy and have a nice day! :)

> Here was one with an air of high nobility such as Aragorn at times revealed, less high perhaps, yet also less incalculable and remote: one of the Kings of Men born into a later time, but touched with the wisdom and sadness of the Elder Race. [...] He was a captain that men would follow, [...] even under the shadow of the black wings.
> 
> * * *

The stone was white and cold.

At first Minas Tirith appeared stunning, breath-taking, Pippin could do nothing but admire this City of Men and the ability of the craftsmen of the past. Every step he took echoed of heroes' adventures, noble kings and wise governors, he didn't know much about Gondor's history, but it wasn't hard for him to picture Isildur sitting on that white throne. Now, after a couple of days at the service of the Steward, the walls had lost all of their charm.

Maybe because of Mordor's shadow, maybe because of the loneliness for Merry's absence, or maybe because he was generally ignored by everyone, but Pippin didn't quite feel at ease in those great halls: they were made by men for men, and a hobbit like him was only a stranger, a passenger, surely not somebody who belonged there. On the other hand, he could still remember how comfortable Dwarrowdelf had been: sure, they were trying to be subtle and quick, they could not stop for long to gaze at the wonderfully carved stone, yet that City of Dwarves, filled with enemies and dangers, had welcomed him more than his current housing.

Someone's heavy steps resounded in the empty hallway, pulling him away from his train of thoughts. He didn't have the energy to talk with Denethor, who always wanted to be entertained in the most strange ways, but he was curious as to who was coming – he was sure it was not Gandalf, since his footstep was lighter.

“You must be Pippin, our new member of the guard!”

It was Faramir, smiling softly.

Denethor's sons were similar in their personality, both kind, funny and caring, both noble and ready to protect others even at the cost of their life; but Faramir intrigued him greatly, for he had this amazing quality, too often overlooked by everyone (including his own father), this strenght to be humble, and lower himself to the level of those in need, to really understand their point of view and their problems at the core. Not everybody was able to do this, especially not with his ease. And his wisdom! Boromir, despite his courage and value, had tried to take the Ring from Frodo, but from what Gandalf had told him, Faramir had refused to do so, recognising the dangers and resisting the temptation with great strenght.

“Indeed, sir, it's a honour for me to be part of this valiant company” he answered, slightly bowing his head in respect.

Faramir laughed, putting an arm behind his back and leading him to a bench nearby, where they sat together in silence: everything was peaceful and quiet, not even a single sound was disturbing that tranquillity.

“If I properly understood Gandalf's tale, you offered your services out of impulsiveness and kindness, which is impressive, considering the circumstances of your arrival here. When I first met Frodo and Sam I knew nothing of hobbits, but you revealed yourself brave, loyal and determined people, and I can't but be glad and flattered to have a hobbit in our guard”

“Boromir died trying to protect my cousin and me, I can still see the arrows in his body as if it had happened yesterday, his wilfullness while fighting one Uruk-hai after the other will haunt my dreams forever... In front of the Steward's grief I chose to bow for him, for Boromir: in that moment I saw a chance of redemption, of a partial one at least, and I knew it was the right thing to do.”

“Boromir's death was tragic, the pain of his loss will never fade, and I'm the first to mourn him; but this doesn't mean that you need redemption of any kind, it doesn't burden you with debt. He gave up his own life to preserve yours, because he saw in you what I can see as well: you, Frodo, Sam... You are the key for this world's survival. Maybe the Orcs will be killed by swords and arrows, but if life and joy keep existing it will be thanks to your liveliness, your hope. Men are prone to despair, when this War ends our lives will be dark, forever burdened by the events we partook in, while you will be right there, to remind us of the beauty of what we fought so hard for: happiness, peace, love. You don't owe my father anything, nor you owe me. But if being part of the guard lifts up your spirit, well, I can only respect that.”

Faramir stopped talking and closed his eyes, a beam of light streaming through the window and hitting his face: the heat of the late-winter Sun softened his features, almost taking away some of his troubles from his face. Pippin stared at him, astonished. Hobbits tended to run away from the “Big Folks”, content to ignore and be ingnored by their world, only interacting with them the bare minimum and when strictly necessary (Bree was an example); but there, basking in the sun next to him, was one of the gentlest and finest people he had ever met, and the urge to flee didn't occur at all.

For he trusted Faramir. Which was kind of odd, since he had needed a couple of weeks to fully trust Boromir, and even around Strider he had been suspicious for days before realising how righteous he was. But Faramir was different, he was easy to talk with, and his smile promised nothing but warmth, acceptance and friendliness, despite the wounds he had suffered in his lifetime.

“How was growing up here like?” he asked, craving to know as much as possible about that man so many times touched by sufferance and pain, yet so compassionate and humane.

His eyes opened, glowing with a joyful light, his smile wider and more genuine than ever.

“Well, when I was a child...” he started, happiness all over his face.

Minas Tirith was home for the legends of the past, great heroes and wise kings. But it was also home for a child who only wanted to discover the truth about the world, a child who used to laugh the whole day chased by his older brother, a child who found the scrolls in the library more fascinating than politics. They ended up talking for the rest of the day, exchanging traditional stories and personal adventures; the stars were shining bright when Pippin walked again through the hallway heading to his room, his soul finally at peace for the first time in a long time.

The stone was white, but no longer cold.

* * *

The garder in front of Echtelion's tower was the most beautiful part of Minas Tirith, the grass was bright green, its colour bringing hope to everybody who whatched it.

Pippin would rather be in the garden than inside, but unfortunately for him he was stuck in the Throne Hall with Denethor, to assist him with the battle's strategies. Well, he was not really helping him with the decisions themselves, but sometimes a candle or a paper was necessary, and the Steward seemed to have some sort of obsession for him.

The doors opened to let a breathless soldier in; from his panting and his red face it was obvious he had run all the way there - a clear sign of some big news.

“Sir, your presence is required in the garden right now!” he managed to shout.

What was there? Why did they have to leave? Pippin desperately craved good tidings from the battlefield, but the face of that messenger was not promising... They all ran outside, the servants whispering in the back in confusion.

And then they saw him.

That man was not bringing bad news, he was an actual harbinger of death.

For laying on a stretcher on the ground was Faramir, three arrows piercing his chest, his armour dirty with blood. Just like Boromir. The battle cry of the Orcs beneath them in the Pelennor Fields echoed of the Uruk-hai's shrieks – he could still hear it in his ears, and the sound of darts going through Boromir's body, and his fear, and his desperation,...

Someone was crying, someone was trying to bring their attention back to the impending battle, someone was shouting some nonsense about bloodlines, but Pippin could not hear any of them, he could not see them.

He slowly approached that body, his friend's body, hoping for a sign of life, but not daring to admit it; and in fact there was none.

He looked at his chest: not moving, he wasn't breathing.

He took his pulse: there was none, his heart was not beating.

He touched his forehead: cold, like ice on a winter night.

No, this couldn't be true, it was a nightmare, it had to be a nightmare like the ones he was now used to have at night: he checked again, just like Strider had taught him, his chest, his pulse, his forehead, maybe the first time he had missed something, maybe...

Nothing.

He tried again and again, his hands trembling always more, his movements more and more sloppy; he stopped only when a white arm got him away from there.

In that moment the world closed around him, his vision blurred all of a sudden with tears that soon started to roll down his cheeks. There was nothing else to do, no way to avoid or deny the truth: Faramir was dead, killed by some random Orc. And the worst was that he wasn't even supposed to go to Osgiliath, if only Denethor hadn't been so stubborn and uncaring, probably he would still be alive! Somebody was holding him tight, but he couldn't care less: his friend was dead, his eyes closed forever, his voice doomed to be forgotten.

But he wouldn't forget.

While Faramir's corpse was getting buried he made a promise, a true oath: he would never, ever forget his laugh, his story, his smile.

Peregrin son of Paladin would maintain those memories forever, no matter what.

The garden in front of Echtelion's tower was a place of sorrow and death, the grass was now red, covered in the blood of a brave man.

* * *

“It's a boy, messer Pippin! You're a very lucky fellow”

“Indeed, I truly am”

“How are you going to call him? What will his name be?”

Pippin stoppod, pensieve: his first son's name was an important choice, he had to think thoroughly about it.

“Faramir, I choose Faramir”

“Faramir? That's quite a strange name, it doesn't even sound hobbit-like”

“I know: Faramir is a men's name, and my son will be called after one of them” he smiled melancholic.

“Well, don't be shy! Tell us more, who was this man?”

“He was a dear friend of mine, we grew incredibly fond of each other despite the short time we spent together. He... He was a good man.”


End file.
